"Rockets are boys' business." My mother was succinct and matter-of-fact about her assumptions, and steered me towards more suitable endeavors. She confiscated my Time with Armstrong and Aldrin and Collins on the cover, she rooted out the Bradbury from my bookshelf, she replaced my astronaut action figure with a plastic Barbie bust for practicing makeup and hair.
But Nana, she didn't see the problem. Nana's house was flowers and plastic couch-covers and religious icons, but when I was over for the weekend it turned into the launch pad at Kennedy.
She's down there, somewhere, right now, on that blue ball.